CHAPTER 32
AUDREY
I pull the heavy oak door open.
Vivian is standing in the hallway, holding a sleek leather briefcase and two massive cups of iced coffee.
She is wearing a sharp navy suit, her hair pulled back into a severe bun that screams 'corporate litigation'.
She looks exactly like the kind of lawyer you hire when you are about to build an empire.
She takes one look at me, standing in the doorway wearing faded jeans and Malcolm’s oversized white shirt, and rolls her eyes.
"You look entirely too happy for a woman who was technically homeless a month ago," Vivian says, pushing past me into the foyer. She hands me one of the coffees. "I brought caffeine. You’re going to need it to read the fine print I drafted."
"I missed you too, Viv," I say, laughing as I close the door.
Vivian walks into the living room, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. She stops in the center of the room, looking around the massive, minimalist space. Her eyes land on the three mustard yellow pillows currently ruining the aesthetic of the charcoal sofa.
She points at them. "Are those yours?"
"They add textural warmth," I reply defensively, taking a sip of the iced coffee.
"They look like a cry for help." Vivian turns her attention to the kitchen.
Malcolm is standing by the island. He hasn't moved since the doorbell rang. He is watching Vivian with the same calm, analytical expression he uses to evaluate security threats, though the tension in his shoulders is entirely absent.
"Malcolm," Vivian says, giving him a curt, professional nod.
"Vivian," he replies smoothly. "I assume you brought the incorporation documents."
"I brought the documents, the tax ID registration, and the preliminary lease agreement for the commercial space in the West Loop.
" Vivian walks over to the marble counter, setting her briefcase down.
She pops the brass latches and pulls out a thick stack of paper.
"I also drafted a standard operating agreement, though since Audrey is the sole proprietor, it’s mostly a formality. "
I walk over to the island, standing next to Malcolm.
I look down at the stack of paper. The bold, black letters at the top of the first page read: Articles of Incorporation: Apex Architecture, LLC.
My throat tightens.
Four weeks ago, I sat in a cheap hotel bar, calculating the cost of a martini olive, convinced my life was completely over. Simon had taken my firm. He had taken my savings. He had taken the last four years of my life and handed them to a receptionist who communicated via TikTok dances.
I reach out, my fingers brushing against the edge of the paper.
"It’s real," I whisper.
"It’s legally binding the second you sign it," Vivian corrects me, pulling a silver pen from her briefcase. She holds it out to me. "I reviewed the capital investment structure Malcolm proposed. It’s clean. He’s providing the seed money as a silent partner.
He has no voting rights, no board seat, and no claim to the intellectual property.
You own it, Audrey. One hundred percent. "
I take the pen. The metal is cool against my fingers.
I look at Malcolm. He is watching me, his dark eyes steady and completely devoid of the controlling edge that used to define every interaction we had. He isn't trying to manage me. He is just standing there, waiting for me to build my own house.
"You really don't want a board seat?" I ask him, a faint, teasing smile touching my lips. "I thought you liked telling people what to do."
"I only like telling people what to do when they are incompetent," he replies mildly. "You are not incompetent. I expect you to handle the board meetings without my supervision."
"I’ll send you the minutes."
I look down at the paper. I don't hesitate. I press the pen to the signature line and sign my name.
The ink sets.
I am not the girl Simon threw away anymore. I am the CEO of Apex Architecture.
Vivian lets out a long, satisfied exhale, taking the paper and sliding it back into her briefcase. "Congratulations, boss. You are officially back in business. Now, about the commercial space in the West Loop..."
"I already reviewed the floor plan," Malcolm interrupts smoothly. "The structural integrity of the building is sound, but the security perimeter is weak. The rear loading dock lacks adequate surveillance, and the biometric locks on the main entrance need to be upgraded."
Vivian stares at him. "It’s an architecture firm, Malcolm, not a nuclear silo."
"It is Audrey’s firm," he corrects her, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It will be secure."
I laugh, leaning my side against his arm. "Let him upgrade the locks, Viv. It gives him something to do while he’s unemployed."
Vivian rolls her eyes, snapping her briefcase shut. "Fine. But I am not billing the client for military-grade security cameras. That comes out of your pocket, Vance."
"I will cover the invoice," Malcolm says.
"Good." Vivian picks up her coffee, taking a long drink. She looks at me, her expression softening slightly. "I have to get back to the office. I have a deposition at three. But... I’m proud of you, Audrey. Seriously."
"Thanks to you," I say, walking her toward the front door. "I couldn't have done this without you."
"You could have," Vivian says, stopping in the foyer. She glances back at the kitchen, where Malcolm is already looking at the blueprints I left on the counter. "But having a billionaire attack dog on your side definitely sped up the process."
I smile, opening the door for her. "He’s not an attack dog. He’s just thorough."
"He’s terrifying," Vivian corrects me. "But he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world, so I’ll allow it. Call me tomorrow. We need to talk about the wedding."
She doesn't wait for me to respond. She walks out, her heels clicking down the hallway toward the elevator.
I close the door, leaning my back against the heavy oak.
The wedding.
We haven't talked about it. We haven't talked about dates, or venues, or guest lists.
Since the night in the safe house, we have been entirely focused on the fallout of the Vance empire and the rebuilding of my firm.
The engagement is real, the ring is real, but the actual logistics of getting married have been pushed to the background.
I walk back into the living room.
Malcolm is standing by the island, tracing the red line I drew on the blueprint earlier. He looks up as I approach.
"Vivian thinks you’re terrifying," I tell him, hopping up to sit on the edge of the marble counter.
"Vivian is highly observant," he replies, stepping between my knees. He rests his hands on my thighs, the heat of his palms seeping through the denim of my jeans. "Are you happy?"
"I am." I look down at him, my hands resting on his shoulders. "I have my company back. I have an office that doesn't smell like bleach. And I have you."
"You have me," he confirms, his thumbs brushing lightly against my legs.
I trace the collar of his t-shirt. "Vivian mentioned the wedding."
Malcolm’s hands stop moving. He looks up at me, his dark eyes searching my face. The absolute certainty he usually carries falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to hesitation.
"We haven't set a date," he says quietly.
"No. We haven't."
"If you want a large event," he begins, his voice dropping to a careful, measured register, "I can arrange it. We can book a venue. We can invite the press. We can make it a public statement."
"I don't want a public statement," I interrupt him.
I slide my hands from his shoulders up to his neck, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
"I spent the last four years going to massive, awful parties where nobody actually liked each other," I tell him, my voice steady. "I don't want to perform for a room full of people. I don't want to prove anything to the media. I just want to marry you."
Malcolm exhales a slow, rough breath. The tension in his shoulders completely dissolves.
"A private ceremony," he murmurs.
"Very private." I smile, leaning down until my forehead rests against his. "Just us. Vivian can be the witness. Grant can stand by the door and look intimidating."
"Grant would insist on a perimeter sweep before the vows," Malcolm points out, a faint trace of dark amusement returning to his voice.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
He kisses me. It is slow, deep, and completely grounding. The frantic, desperate energy that defined the first two weeks of our relationship is gone. We aren't fighting a war anymore. We are just two people standing in a kitchen, planning the rest of our lives.
When he pulls back, he rests his hands on my waist, lifting me effortlessly off the counter.
"I will call the courthouse tomorrow," he says, setting me on my feet. "We can secure a private room for the ceremony by the end of the week."
"The end of the week?" I raise an eyebrow. "You don't want to wait?"
"I have waited long enough," he says, his voice dropping to a low, absolute register. "I am not giving the universe an opportunity to introduce another variable."
I laugh, wrapping my arms around his waist. "The universe is terrified of you, Malcolm. I think we’re safe."
**
Three days later, the universe proves me wrong.
It isn't a massive, catastrophic variable. It isn't Preston escaping from federal custody, or Simon leaking another document to the press.
It is a phone call.
I am sitting at the drafting table in my new office in the guest wing.
The morning sun is bright, illuminating the clean lines of the commercial space I am designing.
Malcolm is in the living room, supposedly reading a book, though I know he is actually monitoring the security feeds for the building.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I look at the screen. It is an unknown number.